by Lori Wilde
Wife? Lover?
He wore no ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Still, there was no tintype of a woman in his saddle bags. No miniature. If she meant that much to him, wouldn’t there be something?
The idea plagued her, and it shouldn’t. She shouldn’t care whether the marshal loved someone. It shouldn’t matter at all.
And yet in the past couple days of caring for him, the connection she’d felt had grown stronger. She tried to tell herself it was only her usual feelings for a hurt critter. Empathy. That was all. But she was intrigued with the marshal’s quiet stoicism mixed with a rare glimpse of wry humor and self-deprecation. She found herself longing to see a real smile.
Unlikely under the circumstances.
He showed signs of improvement this morning. The redness around the wound was fading.
She dressed quickly and ran a brush through her tousled curls. She checked on Mac first. He was sleeping. So was Archie on a cot near him. Quietly closing the door, she went downstairs. She started a fire in the stove. Archie would want his coffee soon. So would she.
She unlocked the door to the marshal’s room. To her surprise he was awake, half sitting up in bed. She’d provided him with the shirt she’d found in his saddlebags, but it was unbuttoned and his chest was highly visible. The sun creases around his eyes were a little deeper. The dark bristles on his cheek made him look even more dangerous. The sheet was gathered around his waist.
He looked better, though. The last remnants of the laudanum were obviously gone. His eyes were sharp and penetrating. The pain was still strong. She could tell by the muscle working in his cheek. And his face was slightly flushed.
She wanted to touch his cheek to see how warm it was, but she knew now that to do so would unleash those wayward reactions inside her and, no doubt, bring a flush to her own cheeks. She couldn’t give him that knowledge. That control.
“I’ll have some coffee and breakfast soon,” she said. “How does your leg feel?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like it has a bullet hole in it.”
If he meant to make her feel guilty, he succeeded. His gaze moved over her slowly, as if he were examining every part of her, inside and out. But he gave no indication of approval or disapproval, just watchfulness. She wondered what he saw. Anything more than an outlaw who’d shot him? She was suddenly aware of the loose shirt and worn pants she wore. She was definitely wanting in womanly refinement.
Her legs felt rubbery, and her heart beat faster. “You look better.”
“Do I now?”
“Yes. Much. I think you might live after all.”
“And that presents a problem, doesn’t it?” He gave her a twisted smile, one that held a dare and even a hint of mockery.
He was obviously strong enough to confront what they’d both ignored these past several days. “Yes,” she replied.
He looked disconcerted by her answer. “What have you been giving me?” he asked.
“A little laudanum,” she replied. “To help you rest after that fall.”
His expression told her he didn’t believe that was the entire reason. “Why are you risking so much to protect a killer?”
She studied him. “How many men have you killed?”
He didn’t reply, but a weariness appeared in his eyes. It almost made him seem vulnerable, took some of the hardness from his face and softened something in her.
She didn’t want to acknowledge that. Not that or the raw longing deep inside her. “You kill for a living,” she said more sharply than she intended. “Nothing to brag about in my eyes.”
“Yet you protect…a woman-killer.”
“A woman? Not Mac. You’re after the wrong man.”
“Ask him.”
She shrugged. She couldn’t let him know Mac was just above him. “I don’t have to. Anyway, he isn’t here.”
“Then…why try to kill me…if he’s not here?”
“If I’d really tried, you would be dead.” She ignored the last part of the question.
His eyes burned into her. They were bright. Maybe too bright. “If you…weren’t a woman, you would be dead. It may not work next time….” His voice trailed off.
Sam didn’t believe him. Didn’t want to believe that he thought her too weak to fight on his terms. “Keep thinking that,” she retorted. “I can take care of myself.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But there are others coming, and you and an old man won’t have a chance.”
A lie. It had to be a lie to scare her. He would not have come alone if it were true.
Electricity crackled, the heated energy that often flashed between them when they sparred.
Sam forced herself to move. To break that connection. She poured him a cup of the lukewarm water left in the pitcher and started to hand it to him. His hand shook.
“You’ll have to help me again,” he said. “I might spill it.” His gaze held hers—locked with hers—and it was far more of a challenge than an admission of weakness. She hesitated. Every time she neared him, something went amok inside her. Still, she sat on the edge of the bed. She put an arm around his neck and raised his head high enough to drink. She guided the cup to his mouth and he took several sips. Her other hand warmed where it touched his skin and his dark hair tickled her fingers. She felt a tightness in her chest and a flooding confusion.
“You his woman?” he asked quietly.
She was so lost in her own reactions, it took her several seconds to understand what he meant.
“Mac?” she blurted out in surprise. She pulled her hand away. Slowly. Reluctant to relinquish his touch.
“I didn’t mean…Smith,” he said with a twist of his lips. Speculation filled his dark eyes.
She started to tell him he was wrong, then stopped. Let him think what he wanted. He probably wouldn’t believe her anyway.
He looked at her fingers. “No ring,” he noted. “How does it happen that a pretty girl like you is unmarried?”
The change of subject was abrupt, and his voice was deeper. Huskier. Almost seductive. Her breathing slowed and she felt a tightness in her throat.
Pretty. Mac and Reese had called her pretty, but she’d always discounted it. They were prejudiced.
And this man wanted something, she warned herself. He wanted to be free to take Mac. Still, she felt a rush of…pleasure at the compliment. She felt something else, too, a trembling along the length of her spine.
Run, she told herself. Run.
“Sam?” he asked, his dark eyebrows arching. “Is that your real name? Or is it Samantha?”
Her given name sounded fine on his tongue. As if he was tasting something delectable. The sudden change in tone—from harsh to tantalizing—was startling.
“It’s Sam,” she insisted. Sam was safer than Samantha at the moment.
“Then thank you, Sam.”
“What for?” she asked suspiciously.
“The water, the whiskey…the nursing.”
“Even if I shot you?”
“I’m not thanking you for that,” he said, the side of his mouth quirking up in that intriguing half smile. “But you could have left me there.”
She swallowed hard. He was being reasonable, yet she didn’t believe a word of it. “I have chores to do,” she said, but didn’t take a step.
His hand rested on hers. Electricity passed between them again, raw and vital. She was excruciatingly aware of it.
“Why?” he persisted. “Why are you…living in this godforsaken place? You should be going to dances and having children and…”
“It’s not godforsaken to me. It’s beautiful, and I’m doing exactly what I want.”
“Shooting strangers down in the street?” His voice was curiously empty of anger despite the harsh words. Guilt filled her again. She suspected he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Or did the man you call Mac put you up to it?” he continued in a conversational tone. “Does he always use a woman to fight his battles?”
He was b
aiting her now, challenging her with those dark eyes, with the sensuous twist of his lips. A sexually charged challenge that she couldn’t step back from.
“He couldn’t put me up to anything,” she lied. “He isn’t here.”
“Do you know he killed two men just days ago?”
“You’re sure of that?”
Those dark eyes met her gaze. “I’m sure. And there’s more warrants.”
She shrugged. “He’s blamed for a lot of things he didn’t do.”
His hand traced a pattern on hers. “Such loyalty.” He said it in a mocking tone but for a second she saw something else flicker in his gaze. A dark shadow that until now had been hidden behind those inscrutable eyes. She’d suspected that he was a man who was alone. A man who believed in little other than himself. But now she saw something else. An emptiness that made her melt inside.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to wipe away the furrow between his brows, and ease the lines of pain that framed his face. She was mortified to realize there were tears welling behind her eyes.
Go. She started to stand, but his hand stopped her.
“Don’t leave,” he said. It was a plea more than a demand, and the need in the words stilled her.
It was hard to associate need with this man, and yet he was alone, in pain, in a hot, stuffy room with little to do but wonder what was going to happen to him.
A muscle moved slightly in his cheek and she had the impression of emotions under tight control again. “Another drink, perhaps?” he added.
Her hand shook slightly as she poured more water in his glass. But as she reached out to give it to him, his fingers met hers and he pulled her down. The cup slipped from her, splashing the contents down his chest. She started to jerk away but his fingers tightened around hers. Even as wounded as he was, there was an alertness in his eyes, a danger radiating from him that both frightened and excited her. Any remnant of vulnerability was gone. Or had she only imagined it?
Her body pressed against his, his warmth radiating through her, his heart pounding under hers. Heat spiked through her. She felt once again as if she’d just been hit by lightning.
In a brief flurry of panic, she tried to lean back. As his hand pressed her closer, she trembled from the waves of sensation that swept over her.
His lips were light against hers, barely touching. More like a feather drawn across her mouth. It was intoxicating, more than intoxicating. She wanted more.
Her body quivered ever so slightly as his lips invited her mouth to open. He deepened the kiss, moving his mouth against hers with a fierce urgency. And then she was drowning in new sensations.
His arm, stronger than she’d believed possible after the loss of blood, kept her bound to him. She knew she could force herself free by hitting his wounded leg, but part of her didn’t want to move. As if he knew everything she felt, his mouth pressed hard against hers. For the first time she started to understand the need between a man and a woman, the feelings that drove them to be together. He opened his mouth and she felt the invasion of his tongue, and she welcomed it, marveling at how it could awaken so many senses in her….
He was her enemy. Mac’s enemy.
The thought pierced the web of sensation. Horrified at herself, she struggled against his arm.
To her surprise, he let go and fell back on the bed, breathing hard. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again they were flat. The muscles in his chest were taut with strain, and his breath came in labored spurts.
He must have jarred his wounded leg. Or the effort of holding her had sapped what strength he had.
She scrambled away before he could reach out for her again. She still felt the heat from his chest, the touch of his warm skin.
She tried not to look as flustered and confused as she felt. She was sure he could hear her heart beating. “I’ll…I’ll be back later with a poultice for that wound. You didn’t help it when…” She was at a loss to continue to describe what had just happened.
He looked as stunned as she was, but managed an expression that was half grimace, half surprise. “It…was worth it,” he said.
She escaped before she blurted out something silly.
Once outside, she leaned against the wall and took long deep breaths. What had just happened?
The books she’d read hadn’t lied after all.
AS THE DOOR CLOSED, Jared lay back on the hard bed and fought the pain. The wound hurt like the furies in hell, but he’d survived worse and had been on his feet within hours. He had the constitution of a horse, according to a friend, and he’d prepared himself for the pain.
He hadn’t been prepared, though, when another part of his body started aching, as well. He hadn’t expected the firestorm that suddenly erupted between Sam and him.
He’d kissed her in an effort to discover more about her. At least that’s what he told himself. And now he was left aching, and she was more of a mystery than ever.
Jared was usually good at judging people, but he couldn’t figure her out. She was a bundle of contradictions. Tough enough to shoot a lawman face-on. Then minutes later healing with gentle hands.
He had thought she must be Thornton’s wife or mistress. He’d taken her into his arms under that assumption. He’d felt no guilt in doing so.
The kiss had proved him wrong. The surprise on her face gave her away. So did the confusion when he’d first pressed his lips to hers, the awakening in her eyes as she’d instinctively responded to them…and then pulled back in a kind of wonderment.
He would bet his next month’s salary she was a virgin. An innocent.
None of this made sense. Not the woman. Not this sorry excuse for a town. Not the old man. And surely not the outlaw who now called himself MacDonald. Sam and the old man had talked about him like he was some kind of God.
Sam. Hell of a name for a woman. And she was a woman. Despite the physical awkwardness of their positions on the bed, he’d felt her softness through the clothes, and her short hair had been like silk. And smelled of roses.
A paradox. A woman equally gifted in inflicting pain and easing it.
He closed his eyes. He was still weak from the loss of blood. Maybe that was why he damn well couldn’t think beyond the woman. She intrigued him far more than she should. Still, maybe he could use that unexpected attraction. Damn, he’d been angry and in more than a little pain, and yet he’d felt a growing need inside. Didn’t make any sense.
And he would bet his life that she felt something, too. She’d run like a startled doe.
Whatever relationship she had with Thornton, Jared had no compunction about using her. Despite what his fellow marshals claimed about his dour disposition, he could be charming enough when necessary. He was rusty as hell, but he was running out of options.
He managed to move up in the bed but at a cost. Strength. He had to get his strength back.
He wanted to put his legs down, test them, but he didn’t want to end up on the floor again. Patience, he warned himself. But he didn’t have much time. Thornton couldn’t be far away.
His fingers tightened into a fist at the thought. So close to his quarry, so close to justice for Emma. Because she had trusted him.
Just as his wife had.
Jared closed his eyes. Usually when he did that, his last thought before sleep was of Sarah. Now it was a tall spitfire with dagger eyes and a quick tongue. Sam with the short, light brown hair and golden eyes.
Sarah had had long hair the color of wheat. He’d loved that hair, particularly at night when she brushed it before twisting it into one long braid.
Sarah…who’d been small and gentle, everything he’d ever thought he wanted in a wife. She had never wanted anything more than Jared and children.
Pain ripped through him. Not physical this time, but the kind that came with memories. He remembered the last time he saw her. The war had started, and he felt strongly he should go. His brother and his wife lived nearby and would look after the farm and Sarah. Jar
ed was the marksman, the hunter. His brother, Seth, was the farmer.
He hadn’t known Sarah was with child, nor had he thought the war would last as long as it did. A few months, he’d figured. No more. Instead he was sent to Texas, then Mississippi and finally Virginia. He learned he had a daughter when a letter finally reached him, and he’d dreamed about holding her. He counted off her birthdays.
After the war ended, he headed home, all his restlessness tamed. He was going home!
All he’d found were graves.
Only Emma, his sister-in-law, had been spared. She was teaching at the school.
Spared only to die in a stagecoach robbery.
By the man Sam was determined to protect.
HER HEART STILL POUNDING hard, Sam ran up the stairs to her room. She splashed water from a pitcher on her face, willing the flush to fade from her cheeks. Then she changed from her drenched shirt to a clean one.
Nearly every fiber of her being was sizzling. The books were right. She had trembled. The temperature in the room did rise. Her world did turn upside down. Her skin had burned from his touch, and her lips continued to feel the magical impact of his kiss.
She tried not to think of those few moments, or her monumental lapse in judgment. Something the lawman said nagged at her. He’d told her that someone else might be after Mac, as well.
With shaky fingers she ran a brush through her hair, then left the room and took the few steps to Mac’s. She stood outside the hall for a moment. Her legs were weak from the kiss, and her heart was beating a little too rapidly.
Willing herself to relax, she knocked on the door before opening it.
Archie, snoring loudly, sat in a chair beside Mac. Mac was not moving. His face was bright with fever, and he was covered with blankets despite the heavy smell of sweat in the room.